


la loro casa e forca

by BedeliaAnneRavenscroft



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Dreams, F/M, Florence - Freeform, Memories, Mischa memories, Nightmares, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Post-Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, hannibal book references, memories of Florence, memory palaces, post-Florence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft/pseuds/BedeliaAnneRavenscroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Bedelia one-shots, some inspired by prompts from tumblr, most likely unconnected to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Date

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr prompt from bedeliainwonderland (NotPersephone) and bedannibal-lectaurier (kmo).

The golden glow from the street lamps lining the walkways creates the illusion of warmth, though the few pedestrians who promenade along the streets would tell you otherwise. When the sun dipped below the horizon some hours ago, it took with it its warmth.

Paris, France: tonight its streets are near bare. The occasional stragglers who dare walk the streets shiver against the cold winds.

Two figures, one tall and broad shouldered, the other petite and seemingly fragile, turn a corner and continue along the pavement. As the couple pass beneath a street light the faces of Hannibal Lecter and Bedelia Du Maurier come into view. Their footsteps are light, his pace slowed to match hers as they return to their hotel, having attended an exquisite performance at the _Salle Pleyel._

A cool breeze stirs the leaves on the ground, blowing tendrils of Bedelia's platinum curls into her eyes. She brushes them back, making a note to tie her hair up for future events. Though she would never say so aloud, she regrets her last-minute decision to leave her wrap in the hotel, especially as Hannibal had warned her against it.

Her companion, ever alert, notices the goose pimples rising on her exposed arms. Silently, he slows his pace and unbuttons his suit jacket. She arches an inquisitive brow and attempts a half-hearted refusal, but does not push him away as he drapes the jacket over her shoulders. She thanks him, holding it around her as she would her wrap, reluctant to push her arms through the sleeves lest she emphasize the already obvious difference in their stature; she would hate to seem an easy meal. As they continue down the street, she surreptitiously turns her head to her shoulder to inhale the scent of her borrowed jacket, glad that Hannibal, unlike most men she has come across, has as refined a taste in cologne as he does food and entertainment.

The clack of Bedelia's stiletto heels against the ground echoes from the surrounding buildings; Hannibal casts his eyes down as he hears a break in the rhythm of his companion's step, a falter in her pace that she corrects almost instantly, her face betraying nothing. Voice sincere without effort, he offers to call a taxi.

Unable to tell, as always with Hannibal, whether an option is truly being offered, Bedelia shakes her head and politely refuses: the hotel is not far. In response he nods and wraps an arm around her waist, his grip loose yet protective.

To one passing the pair they would seem an ideal couple: a gentleman escorting his lady home. But to be a lady, seen traditionally as a damsel in distress, has never appealed to Bedelia, and despite his antiquated etiquette Hannibal is no night in shining armour.

Bedelia is as aware of herself as she is the danger Hannibal poses: fully. And he, despite all his knowledge, is as guilty as others for underestimating her in this respect, almost as though he is willfully blind. Perhaps he wishes to believe himself to be in control of their _doctor-patient_ relationship, or whatever one could call its currently evolved form.

Despite the evolution of their relationship, which may or may not have occurred without the push of certain events, the pair have never courted in the true sense of the word. Aware of his nature long before she admitted it to herself, Bedelia attempted to maintain an unorthodox but professional boundary when dealing with him. She thought it would keep her safe, but soon realised she was incorrect.

Now she is in too deep, the water having risen to the levels of the ocean. Roiling waves threaten to pull her further into the depths of his darkness; she refuses to succumb to them, and instead swims willingly down, down, down into the never-ending blackness below. So long as her descent is borne of her own freewill, she will never descend so far as to be unable to resurface.

While she understands the evident self-destruction in the desire, a part of her craves to explore the darkness he carries with him, the danger he is. In a twisted way, she enjoys the act of toeing the line, of standing on the edge of the precipice and seeing how far forward she can edge before vertigo pulls her back. Pushing his buttons, pressing him to action, is a dangerously addictive and experimental hobby she finds rather amusing. He is aware of the delight she takes in it, and allowing her this pleasure is something he enjoys.

He, too, takes delight in pushing her buttons, attempting to find cracks in her carefully constructed fade, as she has in his. The next time her step falters, he suggests she abandon the heels and opt for flats for upcoming events.

She smiles, turning her face up to his. Their eyes meet, paces slow to a stop. He leans down toward her. Light as the breeze had been against her skin, her lips brush his ear as she whispers, “You have your weapons, Hannibal. I have my own.”

The corners of his lips twitch. “You need no weapons, Bedelia.”

A taxi approaches. Its headlights illuminate the pair, the bright light reflecting off the white gold and jewels adorning Bedelia's neck and hanging from her earlobes. It draws Hannibal's attention to the line of her throat and down to the collar of her dress.

He examines her attire for the fifth time that night. The dress, ankle-length and bateaux necked, made of mulberry silk and tailored to her curves, drew the attention of many of the attendees at the Orchestre de Paris' performance. But it is not the outfit itself that draws his attention; it is the colour of the fabric, a rich and dark purple, close to the colour of aubergines.

A hand against his cheek anchors him to the present, keeping him out of the dark depths of his memory palace, though it is not enough to close the door to the memory. He can still see the vivid colours of the garden, hear the voices of people long lost.

Bedelia's voice, calm and close, tells him it is time to return to the hotel.

********

The electronic fireplace provides the warmth the street lamps did not. Shadows cast by its golden glow shift about the room as though alive as the computer-generated flames flicker, and the crackle of wood from its speakers provides an almost homely atmosphere.

Hannibal, still dressed in his dress shirt and suit trousers, looks out at the city from the high-balcony; while it cost twice as much for a room with a view, he insisted on its necessity to him. Bedelia wonders if he is savouring the time he has left outside the confines of a cage. Both are aware his time as a free man is limited.

Bedelia, barefooted and now clad in a nightdress and blue silk robe, pours two large glasses of _Criots B_ _â_ _tard-Montrachet_ and joins him on the balcony, holding one glass out to him as she sips from her own. He takes the glass and inclines his head in thanks.

“What happened on the street, Hannibal?” He turns his face away, looking down at the taxis passing on the streets beneath them.

Ever patient, ever calm, Bedelia waits for him to speak while he weaves fragments of memories into an explanation. She listens intently as he recalls his sister, a child when she died, and of her love of the colour purple. He remains hidden behind his well-worn mask of impassiveness as he details the brightness that lit her eyes when he, a child himself, brought to her nursery an eggplant and placed it within her sight.

The memory resides in the deepest chambers of his mind. It is treasured, but kept behind locked doors; he rarely opens the locks, as to do so opens other doors, doors that lead to high-ceilinged chambers filled with the howls of wolves and the screams of their prey; he caged the wolf that took his sister, blinded it with his darkness and made it scream as it had her.

“Come inside.” A voice. Not the wolf's; not its prey's. Bedelia's.

He looks down into her eyes, expecting pity but finding nothing of the sort.

“Aren't you going to apologise, as people do?” He asks, combing his free hand through her hair.

“I didn't kill your sister, Hannibal: I have nothing to feel sorry about.”

She grasps his hand and leads him back inside the hotel room. Shutting the doors to the balcony, the pair walk through to the bedroom, where she will remind him of the present once more. But in her mind, in her own memory palace, she stores the newly acquired knowledge on the colour purple where she can consider it later.

 


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia comforts Hannibal after he wakes from a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr prompt by bedeliainwonderland (NotPersephone on here).

It had been one of those rare nights where they slept together, content to remain entwined in the other's arms while the sky was dark and the city of Florence slept. But as the night progressed they pulled away from each other, and now, unlike the other denizens, Bedelia and Hannibal are wide awake.

The day had been long, with each engaging in an impossible task: while Bedelia coaxed him for stories of his past, Hannibal spent his time building higher walls around his memory palace. His attempts to keep her out were in vain: she was not interested in climbing walls or breaking them down. She would wait for him to do the task himself.

Eventually, when both tired of the other's tenacity, dinner was served and consumed in polite silence. Bedelia had been the one to suggest they retire to the same bed for the night, and for the first time that day their relentlessness was to their mutual benefit.

Now, however, there is a space between the pair. They face opposite walls, Bedelia laying on her left side and Hannibal on his right. Each stare off into the darkness, both aware the other is awake. Hannibal turns over onto his back; slowly, cautiously, Bedelia switches on the bedside lamp and turns over to face him.

His face is turned to her, eyes closed against the dim light, the streaks of moisture on his cheeks undeniable. Bedelia reaches out to touch his face, pauses, retracts her hand. She shifts closer, leaving a gap he can close if he wishes, and whispers, “What's on your mind, Hannibal?”

“I dreamt of my sister.”

“What about the dream has upset you so?”

He opens his eyes. She says nothing when another tear spills down from the corner of his eye, glistening faintly in the lamplight as it drips from the bridge of his nose onto the pillow beneath his head.

Regret blossoms somewhere deep in her chest like a bruise forming after a fall. She reaches out to him again and, this time, lets her fingertips graze his cheek before pulling back. Wordlessly, he closes the gap she left, wrapping an arm around her. Bedelia nuzzles into the hollow above his collarbone, closes her eyes, and rests her head against his shoulder. He is a silent crier, though she feels the hitches in his breath.

“Do you want to discuss the dream?” She murmurs, brushing her lips against his neck.

“There's not much to discuss.”

“Then say what little there is.”

He sighs, letting his eyes fall shut once more. He walks his fingers up her back, sending chills down her spine, and combs them through her hair. “I dreamt of her death, though the dream was nothing like the true memory.”

Bedelia shifts, lays her head beside his on the pillow. His eyes open, no longer filled with tears. She meets his gaze.

“What happened, Hannibal? To the Mischa in your dream.”

A short pause. Then, in a whisper, “I killed her... As I killed Abigail.”

Her fingertips brush his neck, as soft as her lips.

He continues. “I was not myself as I am now; I was a child, as was she. The man I am today watched from a distance as I, the child, drew the blade across her throat; he, _I_ , begun to clap before walking away. My child-self looked down, saw Mischa bleeding out, then followed him, leaving my sister to die alone.”

She strokes his hair, leans forward to brush her lips against his.

“It wasn't you who killed her, Hannibal. A dream is a fabrication of the mind, nothing more; we can interpret our dreams, try and find their meaning, and we may come to a conclusion of what they symbolize. But the memories are the truth, and to ignore the truth in favour of fiction is pointless. You build your memory palace to store truths, not fictions; Mischa resides in there, within the walls you chose to build. Keep the truths of her, and allow the fabrications to be forgotten.”

They exchange no more words. He pulls her closer, captures her lips with his own, and resumes their earlier relentless pursuit with fresh fervour.

 


	3. Bellissima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letters burn on the page, his careful handwriting appearing to glow as though he wrote the word with fire rather than graphite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To fulfill a tumblr prompt from bedeliainwonderland (NotPersephone on here)

_Bellissima._

The letters burn on the page, his careful handwriting appearing to glow as though he wrote the word with fire rather than graphite.

Orchestral music ousts the silence. It echoes through the corridors within her memory palace, enticing her toward a room she has visited many times.

The door is open as though the room has awaited her return.

She stands in the doorway, eyes drawn, as they always are, to the couple dancing in the centre of the vast ballroom.

Two shadows twirl across the floor, forever in motion within this room as they dance to the ceaseless tune of an orchestra that is nowhere to be seen. Never do the dancers miss a step in their repetitive routine; she wonders if this will ever change.

The dance they perform has remained the same for so long that she craves a _segue_ in the melody the orchestra plays, one that would enable a change in their movements.

But she fears a change in the melody could bring around the _coda._ She wishes to delay their end as long as she believes possible.

She retreats from the room, allows the door to fall shut once more.

_Bellissima._

The word is at the top of the page; all of his letters to her since his incarceration have begun the same. Though she never replies, she knows he is aware of the power a single word can have in the evocation of memories.

She traces the word with her index finger before folding the piece of paper in half and placing it in a drawer in her nightstand.


	4. Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She gave him a glimpse of herself, bereft of armour, before replacing it all anew...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a tumblr prompt from bedannibal-lectaurier (kmo on here)

It was not something she could conceal; the flush of colour that came unbidden at his touch, blossoming at her cheeks and neck, following a path his lips left so often.

The colour fascinated him, that soft pink hue no painter could emulate, no matter their proficiency; the way the shade would darken in the midst of passion, as though fire burned bright beneath her skin.

The colour burns brighter still in his memories, now they are all that he has.

Memories of Florence, of nights spent learning all the variations of that colour, haunt his waking and unconscious mind in those long hours spent in solitary confinement behind a glass wall.

Eyes shut, lips parted, hair tousled, skin flushed – a still frame, emblazoned in his mind, of their final night together. As he had invited her to reside with him behind his veil, she gave him a glimpse of herself, bereft of armour, before replacing it all anew the next day and sending him away.

His body lies on the narrow bed in his cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane: in his mind, he reclines on their shared bed in Florence, watching her cheeks flush at his touch.

 


	5. Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an anonymous prompt for a Bedannibal fic.

The day he returned from the Capella Palatina in Pallermo was not dissimilar from the rest of their days together in Florence, though both sensed the distance between them had begun to widen. That night he awoke to find himself alone in their bed, with nothing but empty sheets at his side. He shifted over, pressed his face against her pillow to inhale her fresh scent as though to reassure himself she had chosen to remain, that their reunion was not something he had envisioned, but experienced; he found her pillow was damp to the touch, and the smell of salt burned his nostrils.

She sat before the empty fireplace, curled up on one of the chairs with her feet tucked beneath her, silk robe pulled tightly around her frame. She raised her head at the sound of his footsteps, face unreadable.

“Bedelia.”

A hand on her shoulder; she tensed beneath his touch. Blue eyes, hard as steel blades, met his and held his gaze. They held no tears, and the affect she wore never broke beneath his curious, questioning gaze.

“Yes?”

He slipped his hand beneath the veil of her hair, and with his thumb rubbed circles at the base of her neck, just beneath the hairline. A part of him wanted her to relax into his touch; nevertheless, when she did not, he fought an insistent twitch at the corners of his lips and asked if she wished to return to bed.

********

Nearly a foot of empty sheets lay between them, and though nothing but air separated them he was hesitant to try and close the gap, unsure if a line had been drawn and what the consequences would be should he cross it; he feared not only would she withdraw from him, but that the distance would become more than a mere stretch of an arm.

Tentatively, he extended his hand, watched her eyelids flutter as he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. He pulled back, waiting for her permission, or rejection. Her eyes opened, and as the seconds passed he found himself expecting her retreat.

Then she closed the gap between them, pressed her face into his neck and, slowly, allowed herself to relax in his embrace. He touched his lips to her shoulder, leaving soft kisses until she moved her face close to his and met his lips with her own, accepting his unspoken apology, both searching for a diminution in the space between them.

 


End file.
